Chapter 35 Tristan
THIRTY-FIVE
TRISTAN
Seventeen minutes.
That's how long I've been pressed against this wall, hands clasped behind my back, watching five men feast on her with their eyes.
The dining room drips with excess. Crystal chandeliers fracture light across the ceiling.
Polished silver and gemstones wink from every surface.
Bottles of vintage wine and fifty-year-old scotch line up like soldiers.
Enough food to feed a village sprawls across a table long enough to land a small plane.
Most of it will rot in the trash by morning.
But the fucking centerpiece is a thing of nightmares.
It's a life-size sculpture—a woman's form crafted from bread and cured meat. Arms stretched overhead, wrists bound with twists of prosciutto. Legs spread wide. Delicacies arranged between her thighs like she's a serving platter.
A charcuterie board shaped like a victim.
Calder commissioned it especially for tonight.
Because these men get off on suffering. On the degradation of women while they sip champagne and calculate profit margins.
Not one of them brought a date. Their wives don't know about these dinners. Neither do their mistresses. No one knows except the monsters in this room and the staff who've been paid enough to develop selective amnesia.
Including the guards lining the walls.
And then there's Keira.
She's seated at the head of the table, Calder's chair conspicuously empty beside her while he works the room. Playing host like a normal person. He's anything but, discussing the logistics of abducting and trafficking human beings three feet from the bread basket.
Her smile is frozen in place because she knows exactly what happens when it slips.
She's not a guest at this dinner.
She's part of the display.
Another beautiful object Calder is parading in front of his associates.
The red dress catches candlelight every time she breathes. Her throat bare—all that vulnerable skin exposed because these men prefer their prey laid out for them.
One of them keeps letting his gaze drop to her breasts, as if he's picturing undressing her.
He just made it onto my torture list.
Another man leans toward her, murmuring something that makes her polite smile tighten. His hand moves toward her shoulder, and my vision narrows to a single point.
Touch her. I fucking dare you.
Calder notices from across the room. He doesn't intervene. Just watches with that reptilian satisfaction, like a man observing his property increase in value.
This is what she endures.
Night after night. Year after year. Being served up to men for entertainment.
And I'm standing against this wall doing nothing.
The red dress shifts as she reaches for her wine glass. The slit parts, exposing the length of her thigh. Three heads turn simultaneously.
Over my dead fucking body.
One of the servers enters the hall carrying a tray of appetizers. I quickly stick out my boot. She trips. The tray goes flying. Food scatters across the marble in a spectacular mess.
The girl bursts into tears, and the commotion yanks every predator's attention away from Keira.
It's not my first choice, but it's better than doing nothing.
Eighteen minutes.
That's how long I've been standing here, imagining exactly what I'm going to do to each of these men.
Mendoza first. The one who keeps drumming his fingers against the tablecloth like he's bored. I'll take those fingers, one knuckle at a time. Garden shears. Slow enough for him to really feel each one.
Becker gets the nail treatment. Tiny nail bits pushed into places that make grown men scream. And when he's begging me to stop, I'll ask him if the children he trafficked begged too.
Marchetti—the one who keeps staring at Keira's chest. I'll take both his eyes. Then I'll work my way down to the parts he's been thinking with all night. A rusted blade. Dull enough that it takes effort.
And Dashkov…
He gets the worst of it. I haven't decided the specifics yet, but it involves pliers. Blowtorches. The kind of sounds that make neighbors call the police from three blocks away.
Too bad no one will be coming to save him.
I'm picturing all of it. In vivid, exquisite detail. It's the only thing keeping me vertical.
Keira glances up at me, a curious expression on her face. Does she suspect I had something to do with this distraction?
Then she looks away, and the hollowness returns.
Hold on just a little longer, Red.
I swear on every god that ever existed, every man in this room is going to pay for what they're doing to her tonight.
"The Mediterranean route has been compromised." Mendoza's voice slices through my haze. "Too many eyes since the crackdown. We need alternatives."
I force myself to tune in, fixing my eyes on a random painting just past Calder's shoulder.
"Same products?" Calder reaches for his wine.
"Yes, but with a more personalized touch." Mendoza's gaze drifts to the curve of Keira's bare shoulder.
My jaw locks.
Adding your dick to the chopping list.
"The Nordic channel is still viable," Becker offers, tossing a grape into his mouth, chewing while he speaks. "Overhead is significant, though. We need alternative methods, and the products need to remain fresh."
They're discussing how to keep the people they're trafficking alive during transport.
Calder sighs, swirling his glass with practiced indifference. "That's not really my wheelhouse. I prefer my vessels to be unproblematic."
Aaron's going to want all of these details. Every name. Every route.
"But you can do it." Marchetti leans forward, attention finally dragged from Keira's chest as he pitches to Calder. "Your infrastructure is already in place—the containers, the routes, the customs connections. You have an entire underground network just waiting to be utilized."
"My overhead would triple. The modifications alone to keep your products intact…temperature control, adequate ventilation, compartmentalization—"
He glances at Keira.
She reaches for her wine glass instantly. Trained.
"We'd cover the difference." Becker's eyes track to her mouth as she drinks. "Our clients pay whatever we ask. They're not exactly price-sensitive."
Dashkov chuckles—a wet, phlegmy sound that makes my skin crawl. "Making young pussy more exclusive only drives interest. Supply and demand, gentlemen. Basic economics."
I'm going to make him choke on his own tongue.
Calder rolls his eyes, smiling. "Should I adjust my rates accordingly?"
They laugh. All of them. Like old friends swapping stories over brandy.
Dashkov is still watching Keira. Not even trying to hide it anymore. Looking at her like she's already his, and he's just waiting for the transaction to clear.
Enjoy the view while you can, you fucking corpse.
"Will the smaller ones be discounted?" Becker dabs his mouth with a napkin. "Less space required. Seems fair."
"You want a discount for children because they take up less room? They're more valuable, not less. The younger the product, the higher the premium."
My molars grind together so hard my jaw skips, pain shooting up my skull.
"Fair enough." Becker lifts his hands in mock surrender, chuckling.
"There's a private school network we've been cultivating," Marchetti says. "Legitimate front. Impeccable cover. Parents sign over custody thinking they're giving their children opportunities. By the time anyone notices, the paperwork is gone."
Keira's fork freezes halfway to her mouth.
I watch the color drain from her face in real time. She's going to be sick. Or scream.
"I have several options that should satisfy your requirements." Calder waves a dismissive hand, completely oblivious. "We can discuss specifics after dinner."
"Brilliant." Dashkov's gaze slides from Keira to Calder, and something shifts in his expression—something that makes my stomach curdle. "And your wife? Does she assist with the packaging?"
He pauses, arching a brow. "Or perhaps provide samples herself?"
The table goes quiet.
One beat. Two.
Calder's eyes narrow, but he doesn't look upset. "Keira has other talents." He reaches over and drags his knuckles down her bare arm. "She knows her role. Don't you, darling?"
She doesn't answer.
Her eyes have gone distant. Fixed on some middle point only she can see. She's not in this room anymore. She checked out the moment Dashkov opened his mouth, and she's not coming back until it's safe.
It's never safe.
"Darling." Calder's voice sharpens.
"Yes, of course," she croaks.
"So obedient." Dashkov's voice drops, going thick and oily. "I've heard she's quite accommodating."
You have no idea how slowly I'm going to kill you.
Another laugh. Calder's this time.
"She understands her place. That's what matters."
"If only they could all be trained so well." Dashkov's hand disappears beneath the table.
I see the exact moment Keira registers where this is going.
Her spine goes rigid. Her breath catches. And then…nothing. She empties out behind her eyes like water draining from a sink.
He's touching her.
Right there at the table, and Calder isn't going to do anything about it. She has no choice but to sit there and take it.
I black out.
Just long enough to feel myself shift forward, fingers uncurling from behind my back, reaching for the knife I know is strapped to my thigh—
Stop.
I force myself to remain still. Draw air into my lungs in measured pulls, even though it feels like death.
I can't. Not here. Not now.
I'm outnumbered, and if I do anything right now, I might be able to get a few bullets into these assholes, but it would leave Keira and Hale completely alone.
Keira's eyes flick to mine.
Just for a heartbeat, but I catch the plea buried beneath all that careful emptiness.
Calder turns then, and Dashkov withdraws his hand, casual as adjusting a napkin.
Keira exhales.
My blood turns to accelerant.
When Calder waves for the staff to clear the plates, I slip out the side door before I incinerate what's left of my control.